"I'm so glad to see you," he said stupidly. "We're pals, good pals, you know, and nothing can change that." She nodded without looking at him, slowly withdrawing her hand. He rushed on heedlessly, imbued with only one idea--to let her know at all costs how much her opinion of him mattered. "Don't think badly of me, Patsie. I wouldn't bring you any sorrow for all the world. What you think means an awful lot to me." He hesitated, fearing to say too much, and then blurted out: "Don't turn against me, Drina, whatever you do." She turned quickly at the name, looked at him steadily a moment, and shook her head, trying to smile. "Never, Bojo--never that-- I couldn't," she said, and hurriedly went up the stairs. A lump came to his throat; something wildly, savagely delirious, seemed to be pumping inside of him. He could not go back to the others at once. He felt suffocated, in a whirl, with the need of mastering himself, of bringing all the unruly, triumphant impulses that were rioting through his brain back to calm and discipline. At luncheon, Patsie proposed an excursion in cutters, claiming Mr. Boskirk as her partner, and with a feeling almost of guilt he seconded the proposal, understanding her desire to throw him with Doris. DeLancy and Gladys Stone started first, after taking careful instructions for the way to their rendezvous at Simpson's cider-mill--instructions which every one knew they had not the slightest intention of following. Boskirk, with the best face he could muster, went off with Patsie, who disappeared like a runaway engine, chased by a howling brigade of dogs, while Bojo and Doris followed presently at a sane pace. "We sha'n't see Gladys and Fred," said Doris, laughing. "No matter. They're engaged!" "As though that were news to me." "Did he tell you?" "I guessed. Last night in the conservatory." He added with a sudden feeling of good will: "Gladys is much nicer than I thought, really." "She's awfully in love. I'm so glad." "When will it be announced?" "Next week." "Heaven be praised!" In a desire to come to a more intimate sharing of confidences he told her of his fears. "Louise Varney, a vaudeville actress!" said Doris, with a figurative drawing in of her skirts. "Oh, there's nothing against her," he protested, "excepting perhaps her chaperone! Only Fred's susceptible, you know--terribly so--and easily led." "Yes, but people don't marry such persons--you can get infatuated and all that--but you don't marry them!" she said indignantly. She shrugged her shoulders. "It's all right to be--to be a man of the world, but not that!" He hesitated, afraid of going further, of finding a sudden disillusionment in the worldly attitude her words implied. A certain remorse, a feeling of loyalty betrayed impelled him on, as though all danger could be avoided by forever settling his future. Their conversation by degrees assumed a more intimate turn, until at length they came to speak of themselves.